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December 18, 2008
The house I grew up in had a grove of pines. Around the first Saturday in December, Dad would get his red-handled axe from the garage, and wed all tramp through the snow to choose our Christmas tree. I dont remember who got to decide, but I do remember the sound of the axe ringing through the cold winter air, the thrill of the tree crashing down, sending waves of glittering snow into the air, the sharp scent of pine resin, the long, violet shadows as we dragged the tree home in triumph, as if we had somehow captured it.